


Sock It To Me

by Ewebie



Series: Guess My Race Is Run [14]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First of all... This is entirely Moth's fault, Greg knows how to throw a punch, M/M, No I'm not sorry., Note to self... don't get caught with your hands in your pockets, This is a fade to black... the smut is all in your dirty dirty minds, Very minimal canon compliant violence, Who knew Mycroft had a thing for... hands, Yes the title is a terrible pun, do not copy to another site, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:00:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25990996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ewebie/pseuds/Ewebie
Summary: Greg only realized where they were headed as he pulled up outside the address. Of bloody course. Sherlock had been too quiet for the past week. He should have expected something loud and illegal by now. He heaved a sigh as he slammed his car door.“Know the place?”He gave Donovan a despairing look. “Yeah. Unfortunately.”
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Series: Guess My Race Is Run [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/877377
Comments: 32
Kudos: 250





	Sock It To Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mottlemoth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mottlemoth/gifts).



> Me *at Moth*:  
> 

Greg only realized where they were headed as he pulled up outside the address. Of bloody course. Sherlock had been too quiet for the past week. He should have expected something loud and illegal by now. He heaved a sigh as he slammed his car door.

“Know the place?”

He gave Donovan a despairing look. “Yeah. Unfortunately.”

She frowned. “Do I want to know?”

“You probably will in a minute.” He propped his back against his car and glared up at the club. He had to admit, it had been a while. The last time Mycroft Holmes had quasi-abducted him to the poncy club, he’d gotten a horrific dressing down that consisted of mostly silent glares and aristocratic eyebrow raises. All of which was stupidly unfair, since Sherlock was the one that’d gone and set the building on fire in the first place. Greg had just been the one to drag him out of it. And it was dragging. 

Then after bothering to see to Sherlock’s health and well-being, he’d been press ganged into a not so nice car (probably because he was covered in soot), and brought in through the backdoor (definitely because he was covered in soot), only to have Mycroft sigh and give him the most disappointed look he’d ever seen (at least since he’d been seven years old and had managed to get shoved into a shelf that was full of porcelain figurines, which had promptly ended up on the floor in many, many pieces - and he’d been blamed for that one as well).

He replayed the call out in his head. Attempted robbery. Attempted assault. Maybe Greg would get lucky and it wasn’t against Mycroft’s person; there were plenty of other posh arseholes that used the club. Donovan tilted her head and he nodded. No time like the present. He followed her up the walk and rang the bell, cramming his hands in his coat pocket as he waited to be admitted.

“Diogenes.” Sally read the embossed sign. “The fuck does that mean?”

He shrugged. “Probably Latin for rich, posh twat.”

“Sounds Greek,” she grinned at his eye roll.

The door swung open and they were gestured inside. It was reminiscent of all the times Greg had been summoned before. Was it too much to ask that he feel a bit more professional, a bit less scruffy, when he was there on official business? “Just follow my lead on this one?”

“Sure thing, Boss.”

The hiss of someone shushing them emanated from the room at large and Greg pressed his lips together, raising a brow at Donovan. She furrowed her brow, but followed silently after him.

The closer they got to what Greg had dubbed ‘Mycroft’s Lair,’ the further his heart sank. He wasn’t sure he had it in him to shoulder another scolding. And he really, really didn’t fancy it with his Sergeant to bear witness. And he certainly couldn’t think of anything that he’d done (or not done) recently to deserve a berating in the first place. But just his luck, the attendant let them into the very private office of Mycroft Holmes. Greg bit back a groan, and barely managed a polite nod to the attendant in thanks.

“Right.” He kept his hands in his pockets as he came to stand in front of the desk. “Mycroft. What can we do for you?”

“Mycroft?” Donovan made a face.

Greg took a breath. “Sorry. Sergeant Donovan, this is Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft, my Sergeant.”

Mycroft turned from the dry bar, a glass with at least four fingers of amber liquid in his less than steady hand. Christ, did he look shaken. Greg couldn’t think of a time he’d seen so much as a hair out of place on Mycroft’s head, let alone a loosened tie or shirt-sleeves. Pale, he looked pale. And there was a bandage around his forearm. Suddenly, Greg felt like a bit of a shit for expecting something else. 

“Holmes as in…” Donovan trailed off.

“Unfortunately,” Mycroft seemed to gather himself, straighten his shoulders and spine, calm the tremor in his hand. The twist at the corner of his mouth was fake, but was certainly more for Donovan’s sake than anything else. “Horribly inconvenient that you are acquainted with my brother.”

Greg narrowed his eyes, trying to parse the disordered impression Mycroft was making. “We… Had a report-”

“Yes,” Mycroft interrupted, perching on the edge of his desk. “I had the regrettable pleasure of meeting a young gentleman that thought to relieve me of my valise.”

Greg bit his lip, translating the statement in his head. “Okay. And did he manage to make off with your… briefcase?”

“No.” Mycroft set a hand on the neat, leather case on his desk. “That would have been quite unacceptable.”

“Right.” Greg nodded. “Unacceptable as in…”

“Unacceptable by the Official Secrets Act,” Mycroft said flatly.

Oh. That kind of unacceptable. He gestured with his shoulders. “So he tried to take it, didn’t get it off of you and then…”

“I locked him in the en suite.”

“You…” Greg clenched both of his hands in his pockets.

“He was rather dissatisfied with the outcome,” Mycroft continued dismissively. “However, given he was so determined, and he had the knife…”

“Knife?” Sally interrupted. Greg shot her a look.

“Mmn,” Mycroft took a sip of whatever alcohol it was in his glass. “I do believe attempted robbery is illegal, but to do so while slashing at the owner of the item in question is quite a significantly larger issue.”

Greg finally pulled a hand from his pocket and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Not to be the voice of reason here, but why did you lock him in the jacks?”

“He was disinclined to patiently await the arrival of the constabulary.” Mycroft flashed a tight-lipped smile that Greg didn’t believe for one moment.

Greg heaved a sigh. “Right. Fine.” He bobbed his head at the jacks with his eyebrows up. “He’s still in there? Whole? In one piece?”

“Though he has been rather subdued since I phoned the Met, I have no reason to suspect he is not… Well.”

Wow. Greg really should have let Dimmock take this one. “Ok. Here’s how this is going to go. Donovan and I are going to retrieve your friend from in there,” he jerked his thumb at the en suite. “And sort him out. I need you to show up in an hour or two and make a statement, officially.”

“An hour or two?” One of Mycroft’s brows went up. “Would it not be more efficient should I-”

“You’re going to the bloody ED first to sort out whatever injury you’re hiding there,” Greg said crossly. Christ, Holmeses are stubborn bastards. “And if you don’t… I’ll tell your brother.”

Mycroft frowned viciously. “You wouldn’t.”

Greg grinned. Sometimes, goading Mycroft was fun. “Try me.” When Mycroft didn’t argue, Greg gave him a nod. “Good. Sal, let’s let our friend outta the loo.” Donovan looked primed and ready for a fight, which was, in retrospect, probably for the best. Greg crossed to the door and knocked loudly. “Oi! This is Scotland Yard. I’m opening the door. So just behave, yeah?”

Donovan gave a nod. So Greg turned the lock and opened the door. 

He’d only opened the door half a foot when weight slammed into and it hit his shoulder. Hard. Not totally unexpected, Greg grunted but stood his ground. “Oi! What did I say?”

Donovan didn’t waste anytime. She grabbed an arm and hauled him out, holding him securely against the wall. “Thought you said ‘gentleman,’” she muttered.

Gentleman was the wrong word, and maybe so was young. Greg had been expecting a teen, not a puffed up thirty-something thug. The second he caught sight of Mycroft, the man in question unleashed a string of profanity, abuse, and slurs that even had Greg flinching.

“That’s enough!” Sally barked, turning towards Greg with a grin. “Shame we can’t gag them anymore.”

“Fucking cunt!”

Greg actually winced as Donovan caught an elbow to the gut that sent her stumbling back. “Oi!”

A great number of things happened simultaneously. Donovan hit the wall and caught herself. The thug lunged towards Mycroft. Mycroft somehow leapt over the desk, the briefcase clutched to his chest. And Greg noticed the rather nasty glint of metal in the thug’s hand just as he threw himself into the fray.

Knives were tricky. They were light. They were fast. They acted like an extension of the person. And in the hands of someone experienced, horrifyingly deadly. Thankfully, the guy didn’t seem to know any of that. Greg was probably better with a blade than he was, and definitely more experienced. Greg caught his extended arm, turning his back into the man, hip-checking as he gave the wrist a nasty turn. The knife fell from his hand and hit the hardwood floor with a clatter.

“Donovan!” He kicked it towards her, twisting to subdue his new friend. But the bi-directional movement had him wrong-footed and a solid shove had him back pedaling. 

The man lunged for Mycroft again, and this time, Greg stepped directly in his path. It wasn’t the most thought out plan he’d ever had, but he was actually losing his patience in a way that normally only Sherlock could do. The man snarled and took a swing. It was a wild haymaker that Greg ducked sharply beneath. “I kinda hoped you’d do that.”

The man swung again, this time trying for an uppercut. Greg dodged and threw his own punch. Which connected. Solidly. And the man dropped to the floor.

“Boss!”

Greg shook out his hand with a hiss. “Prick tried to hit me first.”

“I saw,” Donovan grumbled, setting the knife on the desk and stooping to cuff the man. “You didn’t need to knock him out.”

He grinned, “Yeah. I did.”

“The paperwork alone…” She complained.

He winked. “Only the best.”

It took the better part of an hour to sort a custodial medical assessment for the attempted thief and get him back to the Yard. Mycroft was rather subdued for the duration, accommodating and quiet. And by the time Greg was back in his own office, filling out his half of the necessary paperwork, it was much, much later than he’d planned. Given that he’d been the one to punch a suspect, Donovan had been landed with the bulk of the followup, including taking a statement from Mycroft. And she was less than impressed. All in all, by the time Greg was ready to leave the office, he needed a drink.

He shouldn’t have been surprised to find the dark sedan idling at the curb as he left. He drew up short all the same. Probably going to be some sort of damage bill for the poncy wall in the club. Or maybe he’d been too loud again. Conducted himself improperly. He gave one wistful thought for the pub around the corner before sliding into the car. He shouldn’t have been surprised to find Mycroft seated across from him either. But again, here they were. Oddly, Mycroft would have looked really well at home if there’d be a desk between them. The car slid smoothly into traffic as soon as he’d pulled the door shut.

“Detective Inspector.”

Ah. This was going to be a formal type of meeting. Fine. “Mycroft.” He shifted against the seats. “Where are we going? Not the club.”

Mycroft’s mouth twitched. “Return to the scene of the crime?”

“You mean you detaining someone against their will?” He was in no way sorry for punching that twat in the face, but still.

“He attempted to abscond with classified-”

“You locked him in the loo-”

“He stabbed me in the arm-”

“Did you at least go to the hospital?!”

Mycroft pulled himself into his most upright posture. “I did. As a matter of fact.”

“Well good!” Greg sat back with a huff, crossing his arms. They glared at each other for a moment.

“Did you?”

“Did I what?”

“Go to the ED?”

Greg felt his entire face scrunch. “Why would  _ I _ go to the ED?”

Mycroft opened his mouth, but for a moment, there was no sound, just blinking and a complete loss for words.

He had never seen Mycroft so… So… Awkward. It was kinda precious. It definitely made Greg smile. “How’s your arm?”

“It’s fine.”

Greg hummed and nodded. “And the club? Will it survive the disruption?”

Mycroft frowned. “They will be improving their security.”

“Didn’t cause too much of a ruckus?”

Mycroft scoffed.

Greg grinned and crossed his arms. “We did, didn’t we.”

“It has been taken care of.”

Greg raised a brow. “Ah. Good. I’d hate to have to wait outside in the future.”

“I would never-”

“Smuggle myself in the servant’s entrance.”

“That is not-”

“Hide in one of the food trolleys.”

“Gregory.” Mycroft had reached peak exasperation and it was amusing Greg to no end. “You are welcome back whenever… If we were…” He seemed to stumble over the words again. “How is your hand?”

“My hand?” Greg glanced at his palm. “Fine.”

Mycroft heaved a sigh. “You… Punched him. Rather hard.”

“Oh,” he instinctively clutched his hand into a fist and relaxed it almost as quickly. “Yeah. Well... “

“It was, very quick… Thinking and moving. I hadn’t realised he still had the knife.”

“Yeah,” Greg rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m not a fan of knives.”

“I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you,” Mycroft cleared his throat.

Greg wrinkled his nose with a wry smile. “Every now and then I do something other than yell at your brother and stare at crime scenes with my hands in my pockets.”

“I did not… I didn’t mean to imply… I…”

“Are you alright?”

“I’m quite fine. Why?”

“It’s ok to be a bit shook up.”

“I know that.”

“Do you?”

Mycroft gave his most disapproving glare. It might have worked if Greg hadn’t been on the receiving end of that look too many times. If he hadn’t gotten used to taking Holmesian displeasure with a grain of salt. If he didn’t know that Mycroft was putting up a front, pretending to be in control of things beyond the scope of human governance. If he wasn’t completely sure, in spite of the unprecedented nature of it, that Mycroft Holmes was blushing.

Greg grinned. “If you’re sure.”

“If I’m sure? Detective Inspector, do you believe that I could possibly? When have you ever known me to? Not that I would doubt… But I… I am fine.”

Greg nodded very slowly. “Uh huh.”

“This is ridiculous. I am not- The whole purpose of this end- No. I did not collect you from New Scotland Yard so that you could mock me in my own vehicle.”

He was stammering again. Too many unfinished sentences in one breath. It was wildly out of character. So Greg did what he tended to do with all things unpredictable and Holmsian: he nodded patiently. “So. If I’m not here to mock you, why am I here?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You said that you didn’t bring me here to mock you, so…” He spread his hands. “What do you want?”

“What… What do I want?”

“Mmn,” Greg felt another smile crack across his face. “Where are we going and what for?”

It was near perfect timing that the car rolled smoothly to a stop. Mycroft cleared his throat again. “Here.”

Greg glanced out the window. “Here?” The door opened and Greg took the message, hauling himself out of the car and onto the walk. “Kensington?”

Mycroft brushed past him, striding purposefully up to the nearest front door. “Home.” It took a moment or two, but then Mycroft was standing in the open door to what was, apparently, his house with an impatient look on his face. “Well?”

Greg tried to temper his amusement. It didn’t work. “Well what?” 

Mycroft gestured at the door. 

“Oh, right.” Greg shoved his hands back into his coat pockets. “Invited in, am I?” 

Mycroft rolled his eyes and disappeared inside, clearly expecting Greg to follow. 

Greg heaved a sigh. Somewhere in that brief exchange, the car had driven off. Faced with either walking home or trying to suss whatever this was about, Greg figured Mycroft would have to explain himself one way or another. Dogged persistence tended to pay off most of the time. With a shrug, Greg followed him into the house. “So that’s the where,” he started. “Leaves the wh-”

For the briefest moment, Greg actually thought he was being attacked again. He flailed to free his hands from his pockets as his back hit the door - second time today being hit with a door - and Mycroft’s weight collided with his front. But then Mycroft’s mouth was on his, and Greg was sure he was being attacked. Just… Not like that. Like, like Mycroft wanted… Christ. Whatever it was he wanted, he was taking it.

As abruptly as it had started, Mycroft planted his hands on Greg’s shoulders and pulled back. His eyes flit quickly up and down, over Greg’s frame. Then he cleared his throat and turned on his heel, heading deeper into the house. “Drink?”

Greg heaved a breath and pressed his eyes shut for a moment. What? He finally managed to untangle himself from his trench and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. What on earth? He couldn’t just sit there against the door, could he? It was tempting. But really, it was either follow Mycroft and see what the hell was going on, or escape now, quite possibly with all that was left of his sanity. He blinked at the empty hallway and decided in for a penny, in for a pound.

He found Mycroft in a large and clearly underused kitchen, in the process of pouring two tumblers of scotch. He tucked his tongue against his teeth and watched, waiting for Mycroft to finish. Alcohol poured, Mycroft was quick to take a large sip. Greg raised a brow and turned his glass in a slow circle against the counter. “So?”

Mycroft blinked as if seeing him there for the first time. “Why are you still wearing your coat?”

Greg pressed his lips together and tilted his head. That could mean any number of things. Any number of complex things and he wasn’t really sure if he’d put money on any one of them in particular. “Right. I’ll just…” He shrugged out of his trench and draped it over the nearest chair. Without any further indication of what exactly was happening, Greg planted his palms on the counter, fanning his fingers out. “Mycroft?”

“How’s your hand?”

Greg’s face pinched, following Mycroft’s gaze to his knuckles. “My hand?”

Mycroft took another sip of his scotch. “Do you need an ice pack?”

Greg huffed out a laugh. “If it’s bruised, it’s well bruised now.”

Mycroft hummed.

“No. I don’t need an ice pack.” He wrapped his fingers around the rim of his glass, watching Mycroft watch his movements. A thought occurred to him. Half formed and a bit muddled, but a thought. He shifted the glass to his left hand and made a loose fist, wrapping his knuckles on the counter. “Mycroft?”

Mycroft raised a brow, following Greg’s hand with devotion. Completely ignoring that Greg had circled to the same side of the counter.

Hands. Huh. Never would have figured. He abandoned his scotch. So… Mycroft Holmes was completely distracted by the fact that Greg had hands. They weren’t particularly special. Just work rough, few previously broken fingers, scar on the back of his left from broken glass. They’d always struck him as kinda clumsy in comparison to Mycroft’s. Then again, they’d always been good enough to throw a punch. “Mycroft?”

“Hm?”

He reached up and gingerly removed the glass from Mycroft’s grasp and placed it on the counter. “What,” he pinched the knot of Mycroft’s tie between his thumb and forefinger, giving it a light tug. “Exactly, am I doing here?”

It took a beat or two before Mycroft lifted his gaze to meet Greg’s. He lifted a brow, but it fell short of his usual patronizing glare. “You punched him.”

The corner of Greg’s mouth pulled into a lop-sided smile. “He tried to hit me first.”

“You knocked him out cold.”

Greg let the tip of his tongue rest against his lower lip for a moment, enjoying the way Mycroft seemed to become entirely distracted. “He had a knife.”

Mycroft nodded slightly.

“Which he’d stabbed you with.”

Mycroft nodded again.

“You like that I hit him.” 

“I…”

Greg grinned. “All I needed to do to get you hot and bothered was throw a punch?”

“I’m not…”

Greg raised a brow. “Not coming across all blushy just because I gallantly defended your virtue?”

“Blushy,” Mycroft scoffed. It came across as breathless. “There is nothing untoward about, about finding the male form… Attractive in its… Utility.”

“You could’ve just said.”

“Do not patronize me.”

Greg smoothed a palm down Mycroft’s chest. “Just to be, you know, crystal clear. Am I going to have to punch someone out  _ every _ time I want you to kiss me?”

“I…” Mycroft studied his face for a long moment. “It mightn’t hurt.”

Greg felt laughter bubble out of him. “Or you could just say.”

Mycroft nodded. “Alright.”

“Alright?” He closed his fist around the body of Mycroft’s tie and tugged.

Mycroft tipped forward, bringing them nose to nose and catching himself with both hands on Greg’s hips. “Alright,” he breathed. This time Greg didn’t feel quite so much like he was being attacked. Less surprised. And quite pleased to be kissing Mycroft Holmes.


End file.
